


The Letter

by all4athena



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 20:51:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all4athena/pseuds/all4athena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In-period (as in Arthur Conan Doyle-esque) adaptation of "Alone on the Water"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Letter

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Alone on the Water](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/17223) by MadLori. 



> _I would die for you_  
>  _Cross the sky for you_  
>  _I will send out a light burning for you alone_  
>  _You’re all I need…_

\- Guide You Home (I would die for you)

_——-  
_

Holmes grabbed Watson by the hand, his grip light and eyes glassy from the disease that had nearly sapped his life. “It’s time, John,” he said, passing over the small syringe of arsenic.

——-

I had noticed, over the course of about a month and a fortnight, that my dearest friend Sherlock Holmes had been acting rather… odd. Not that he wasn’t considered to be peculiar compared to most; he was an eccentric person, often too busy with his work to give anyone else much notice. However, his isolation, which usually warranted little of my concern, began to worry me. Holmes began avoiding me at all costs, even specifically going out of his way to make sure we didn’t cross paths in our overly-cramped flat.

I walked by Holmes’ room on my way to pick up the paper one morning, still half-asleep and groggy from pulling a late night chronicling our latest case. Had I been more ignorant, I would have probably overlooked the crouped cough that I heard from within his room. I knocked on the door.

“Holmes?” I asked, a hint of concern in my voice. “Are you alright?”

Silence.

I waited patiently for a few minutes, thinking that Holmes may have been involved in his morning habit of snorting. Still no answer.

“Holmes, I’m off to fetch the post. I’ll return in ten minutes,” I called out, loudly enough so I would know he would hear me no matter what he was doing. A silence still persevered from the other side of the door.

I went off to fetch the post, which mainly consisted of fan mail, publishing offers, and a letter from my darling sister. I didn’t care much to read any of the letters for now, as my mind was still racing with fears of what my dear Holmes could be doing, alone in his room.

I went back to his room and rapped on the door with all the strength I could muster. “Holmes, I really must insist…” My sentence was cut short when the door’s hinges finally gave way. I slowly opened the door.

“Sherlock?”

He was lying flat on his bed, which was messier and more unkempt than it usually was. Around him, I could see large spots of mucus and dried blood; it seemed as if he had been coughing for the past few days at the very least.

“Watson…. I….” He stammered, his voice shaky and hoarse.

My eyes watered. I had a hunch as to what this was, but I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. No, this couldn’t be… he was too healthy for this.

I went up to his bedside and peered down. His eyes met mine; I could see he was studying my face. “I never wanted you to see me like this.”

“I know.”

I bent down beside him and took off his nightshirt and immediately became aware of his depleted state. Although Holmes was normally a very slender man, the disease had progressed so far that it left him in a severely malnourished state. His laboured breathing was clearly visible now, but I still wanted to check… just to be sure for Sherlock’s sake. For my sake.

I lightly placed my right ear just under Sherlock’s right nipple. His skin was cold and clammy to the touch, but what was worse was the horrid, raspy sound that I heard in my flatmate’s chest every time he took a breath. There was no mistaking it now.

“What is it?” Holmes asked weakly, but with baited breath.

I turned my face away. I couldn’t let him see the tears that were forming in my eyes. “Consumption,” I said in a hushed voice. “You’re in the final stages of consumption.”

Although I could not see him, I heard him take a long, laboured breath. He paused for a few moments, and then responded in one of the calmest voices I had ever heard. “How long?”

“A month at best. Two weeks most likely. Five days at worst.” I could feel the inevitable knot in my throat starting to swell as I held back the tears. I couldn’t let him see. I had to be strong.

“John,” said Sherlock. I turned around to face him.

“Yes, my dearest Holmes?”

“I know what this does. I will suffocate, won’t I? My lung tissue is dead, isn’t it? Soon… eventually… I won’t be able to breathe because my lungs can’t process the oxygen…. I’ll gasp for air, and despite no matter how much I intake, it won’t satisfy my body’s need. I’ll die a slow, painful death. Is that right, John?”

I looked down at my knees. The thought of Holmes laying there, fighting for each breath, something that came so easily to the rest of us, pushed me over the edge. I felt the tears stinging the corners of my eyes as they began to pour down my face.

“Yes, Sherlock. That’s exactly what happens.”

——

Two weeks passed. Sherlock was still in his room and I, too, had chosen to become more reclusive. For my friend’s sake, I had closed all of the curtains in our flat, trying to make it as dark as possible should he choose to leave the isolation of his room.

I was researching symptom management for consumption when it happened. My ears pricked as I heard the door to Sherlock’s room slowly creak open; I turned my head to see him come out.

He looked worse than when I saw him last. His skin, which was normally an illustrious, creamy white, was now a sickly cross between pale ivory and bruised green. I could see every blood vessel in his skin, as if he were a ghost. His nightshirt was still stained with droplets of blood. I nearly gasped at my friend’s now skeletal form; he had again lost a considerable amount of weight.

“John,” he said as he shuffled his feet towards me, exerting as much energy as he possibly could to come my way.

“Yes, dear Holmes?”

He sat down on the couch beside me and turned his head away to cough more blood. A considerable amount of blood, in fact. His consumption was worsening, and I knew exactly the cause.

“Do you trust me?” Sherlock asked, a bit of worry in his voice. He shifted his body over to meet mine, his cold grey eyes reflecting every bit of fear I had within myself.

“With all my life,” I replied.

“Then tell me. Is this turning into a Rasmussen’s aneurysm?”

Clearly my friend had been doing his research on consumption. Somehow he had figured out my chief concern - that his infection would migrate into his pulmonary artery and hemorrhage. Had I not been reading up on the subject myself, I doubt Holmes himself would have even known about this condition.

I looked him dead in the eye. His pupils were three-fourths dilated under the darkness of the room; I could see my reflection in them clearly.

“It most likely is,” I admitted with a sigh. “The exsanguination caused by it will be painful, but your death will come faster compared to the typical, chronic onset of tuberculosis.” I reached out and touched his cheek gently.

Holmes gently swiped away my hand and reached into his pocket. He produced a small syringe with the label ‘As’ on it. I knew what it was immediately.

“Arsenic,” I said coldly. “Why do you have arsenic?”

Holmes’ expression turned from one of frustration to one of pleading. Although he couldn’t muster his normal facial expressions, the desperation in his eyes told me all that I needed to know. “You said you trusted me.”

Holmes grabbed Watson by the hand, his grip light and eyes glassy from the disease that had nearly sapped his life. “It’s time, John,” he said, passing over the small syringe of arsenic.

I took the syringe in my hand and tightly curled my fingers around it. “No… no, no, no…” I stammered, feeling a knot form in my throat as I strained to hold back tears. “I am NOT doing this.. Not now. Not ever. Sherlock, I… I can’t.”

I watched as Holmes mustered all the energy he could to turn his head and cough away from my face; it was clear that he didn’t want me to suffer from the same horrible fate. A large amount of blood and sputum ejaculated from his mouth, landing on the couch and the floor around us both. “Would you rather see me like this, then? Watching me suffocate, slowly gasping for each breath until I die of asphyxiation? Or better still, watching me bleed to death, realizing there’s nothing you can do?”

I burst into tears. Although I knew what he said was right, although I swore an oath not cause others harm but instead help them, I couldn’t bear to face this world alone. If there was some way I could cure Sherlock.. some way we could be together until we both grew old.. I would do it. “I would give anything in order to save you, but this… this is something I simply can’t do,” I admitted, putting my free hand on his shoulder and giving it a light squeeze.

“It’s not a matter of _want_ or _can’t_ anymore,” Sherlock said, reaching up and placing a pale hand on top of mine in an attempt to cease its shaking. “It must be done.”  
  
I watched again as Sherlock cast his gaze directly into my eyes; it didn’t need to take any deducing to see the panic behind them. “I….” he cut off his sentence to have yet another coughing attack. “I… we. We must be strong, John.”

I sighed heavily and nodded in understanding. It was his life and his choice as to what to do with it; who am I to object?

“Hold out your arm, Holmes.”

He did so, rolling back the sleeve on his nightshirt. I could easily make out all of his veins through his pallor skin. I located a rather thick one and palpated it; the vein would more than suffice for the event about to occur.

I looked him in the eyes as I readied the injection. “Holmes,” I said defeatedly, my tears now falling into his lap. “Are you sure? There’s… no turning back after this.”

“My dearest John Watson, my most loyal friend,” he reassured me. “If you can trust me with your life, why can’t I trust you with mine, and more importantly the taking of it? There is nobody else in the world I would entrust such a task with.”

I nodded again and pushed the needle into his arm, releasing the plunger. “Five minutes,” I said upon withdrawing the injection. “You have five minutes to live.”

“I don’t want you… to leave me… don’t…. break my gaze….” my dearest friend said. I collected him in my arms like a small child and supported the back of his head with my hand; he was incredibly light.

“I would never think of doing that, not in the slightest.”

I held him there, looking directly into his eyes, watching the light go from them. Although I had watched many people die, Sherlock’s impending death made me react like never before. My stomach clenched and my muscles twitched violently. This is what it must be like to lose a true friend.

He closed his eyes. I placed a hand on his heart; it was still beating. For all intensive purposes I believed that he was still capable of recognizing my speech and my touch.

I bent down and kissed his forehead. Had he not had consumption, I would have kissed his lips with all the passion that I felt for him. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes. And I always will.”

At the last syllable of my voice, his heart stopped and he went completely limp in my hands. It was over. Just like that.

——

Months passed. Lestrade and Mycroft had come to pick up Sherlock’s body and to offer their condolences. The funeral came and went. I spent more time than I cared to admit at Holmes’ gravestone, talking to the wind, hoping that somewhere, he would hear me.

I had not cleaned the house. The sitting room couch where he died still stank of the blood that had left his body. There were red flecks on the wall and the floor around the couch as well; I used these things to grieve upon.

Mrs. Hudson suggested I cleaned Sherlock’s room. I had to approve of her request, as it was something that had to be done. I walked into the room and noticed something peculiar resting upon the bed.

I walked over to the bed to examine the piece of parchment upon it. I soon realized that it was in fact a letter for me; it had my name on it in Sherlock’s handwriting. I opened the letter delicately and began to read:

_My dearest John,_

_By the time you read this, I will have probably died. Although it was my time to go, I wish I could have had more time to tell you the matters of my heart. The way you captivated me so…_

_I never loved anybody as much as I loved you, John. I don’t know why I never told you my true feelings for you, but I am now. You mean the world to me, John. Everything about you sets my heart ablaze with fire and all-consuming love for you. Your perfect little habits, the way you care for me above all else, the way you return to me despite some of our most heated arguments. I never treasured someone the way I treasure you._

_Seeing you in pain after I fell drove me mad. I watched you go up to the corpse and moan and cry in agony as I, too, began to cry silently from my hiding spot. I followed you every time you went to the cemetery to see me, John. I heard every word you ever said to the wind, every apology you ever made to me, and all of your wishes for me to be back with you, safe and sound. It took everything I had in me to not run to you and collect you in my arms every single time…_

_Reuniting with you after the fall has been one of the happiest moments of my life. I’ll never forget it, John - the way you looked when you first saw my face, the way my very presence left you speechless, the hugs and the tears we shared after. How I so desperately wanted to kiss you, over and over, until we were both left breathless. I would’ve carried you to bed and held you for days, only getting up to eat or go to the bathroom._

_You’re the only thing I truly ever wanted in life, and your heart was the only thing I could never truly attain. Maybe if we had more time together, maybe in another lifetime, we could have been together in the way that I had always intended us to be._

_Just as we risked our lives for each other so many times over, I now risk my heart in revealing my affections to you. I only wish that, if I am still alive when you read this, to tell me how you feel, how you reciprocate my feelings and want nothing more than to be with me._

_-Sherlock Holmes_

_  
_I stood there, my hands trembling and my eyes filling up with tears. I was utterly speechless at Sherlock’s confessions; had he made them to me in life I would have most definitely reciprocated.

I swiftly grabbed the letter and a loaded pistol; these were the only items I would need as I ran off to where Sherlock was buried. “I’ll make us one,” I said, a hint of hysteria in my voice, “no matter what the costs.”


End file.
